Not a Hero (In My Arms)
by OrionLady
Summary: "It was my fault." Something in Barry's brows twitched, trembled, and then went still. Like a dead animal. "A boy doesn't have a father because of me." Joe's expression broke. He surged forward with a gut pull, primal and fierce.


**AN**: This is set early in season 1 and the title is taken from Plumb's song of the same name.

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Joe crouched slowly beside the figure sprawled against the living room's far wall. Blood dripped onto the floor. Joe kept his body language quiet, despite the racing in his heart.

"I heard the report," said Joe. "The man pulled a gun…"

"It was my fault." Something in the young man's brows twitched, trembled, and then went still. Like a dead animal. "A boy doesn't have a father because of me."

Joe's expression broke. He surged forward with a gut pull, primal and fierce.

In a tangle of limbs and gentle pushing—along with what fell like an ill-executed extortionist trick—Joe managed to get behind Barry on the floor. Barry sat stiff in his arms, back to Joe's chest. Joe wrapped himself around the lanky youth, legs sprawled out around the boy's hips. The fabric of his hoodie felt chilled against Joe's dress shirt. He had expected Barry's heart rate to be thready, frantic.

Instead, the steady contraction of Barry's lungs seemed years apart. Heavy _in_…sighing _out_. Heavy. Sigh. In…_out_.

Like he was disappointed when it started again. At this thought, Joe huddled tighter. The action felt familiar. A memory looped through his bones.

"Do you remember elementary school? The ones who taunted you?"

Despite Joe's whisper at his ear, Barry showed little reaction. Only a tendon in his jaw flared. Still, Joe waited. The sun's setting rays came in blue and green through a hummingbird window hang Iris had bought him for Christmas. It cast Barry's cut hands and tense wrists in squalid shadows.

After a minute, he nodded.

"Congratulations, Bar. You've become the bully."

The boy frowned. "I'm not—"

"You beat yourself up." Joe set his chin on Barry's shoulder. "You're no better, crippling yourself and boxing your hope into a corner. Don't prey on those memories, write guilt all over them."

The body in Joe's arms sagged—all at once—like a rubber band snapping. His head bowed. A tuft of sweaty hair tickled Joe's neck.

"Easy, easy. Wasn't anything you did or didn't do."

"Chose wrong," Barry croaked.

"Hmm?"

The rumble of Joe's sternum brought Barry's head up. "Took Cisco's call too late because I…chose my date over playing hero."

Joe didn't know at what point he had started rocking them, but he stuttered to a halt at the words. His ears fuzzed out. A huff escaped his throat.

"Barry." He tempered the incredulity under something firm. "That man was shot in a parking lot—forty-five to the temple. He died instantly. Our cameras barely caught it. You're fast, but not faster than time."

"Aren't I?"

"You chose life."

The steady rhythm hiccuped. "What?"

"You chose to dwell on life, Bar, because you know what? You're not a hero."

Barry stopped breathing altogether. His skin suddenly felt very warm against Joe. The older man's voice dropped to a hot, convicted whisper.

"You're a young man and healing and vibrating and _living_. You make mistakes, sure, cook me burnt eggs too, every time. Happy sometimes—an outstanding forensic analyst—and raging the next. You're human, Barry." His eyes slipped shut, trembling lips in the hoodie. "You're my son."

They sat in silence for a long time. So long that dark settled and the noise of cars quieted. The grandfather clock chimed. Joe didn't really listen, though it was more than ten times.

In…out. Heavy…release. In…release.

This child—had Barry really held himself to such harsh expectations? Had _they_, all who knew his secret? Joe didn't have an answer, so he squeezed and kept rocking.

"Says the man who liquefies our stuffing every Thanksgiving."

"Whatsat?" Joe drifted back.

Barry's head finally flopped back on Joe's shoulder. "How is that even possible? And you criticize my culinary skills. Isn't stuffing made from bread?"

Joe rolled his eyes. "You're lucky I didn't include your deplorable dancing skills."

"Me and my high score would like to argue that."

"Dance Revolution is not a skill."

"Neither is disco."

"Are you calling me old?"

It wasn't quite a smile. Just a crinkle around Barry's nose and eyes when Joe chuckled.

"I believe," said Barry, "that in my profession we prefer the term 'dated.'"

Joe snorted.

The crinkle smoothed. Barry stared out at some point Joe couldn't see.

"The boy watched his father get shot," said the younger man quietly.

Joe resumed his rocking. "I know."

"Sure it wasn't my…?"

"No. It really wasn't your fault. Heroes of old weren't human. They saved lives but forgot to live. They became outsiders to the very thing they preserved." Joe planted a kiss, quick and feather light, to Barry's temple. "You're no hero and I'm so relieved. Bloody proud, too."

This time the smile was real, however small. Barry closed his eyes and leaned his head against Joe's jaw. Some timer on Joe's phone buzzed but they ignored it.

"Is this living too?" murmured Barry.

"Sometimes the hardest thing is to take the next breath. Yet here we both are. Quite a feat, really."

Barry's eyes flicked open. "Joe?"

"Mmm?"

"Living makes me hungry." The younger man sniffed. "Breakfast for supper?"

"It's almost midnight, Barry."

"Breakfast for a late night snack?"

Something exasperated and affectionate lit the shadows in Joe's eyes. "What am I going to do with you? Sure. But I'm making the eggs. You're on toast duty."

Barry quirked a brow. "Is this because someone can't be trusted with bread?"

"Don't push it."

"Yes, sir. Square deal."

Barry slid forward to let Joe stand. The detective shuffled over to the sofa to retrieve a woolly throw. He knelt and draped it around a confused Barry.

"For shock." Joe kept his voice low. The boy might appear lifeless, but Joe didn't miss the tremors. "You still look a bit waxy."

Barry's lips twisted. "Joe?"

"Yeah?" He finished fussing over the loose edges of the blanket and sat back on his heels. "What is it?"

"Isn't that why you became a cop? To be a hero?"

Joe fell silent. He shifted, reaching for Barry's shoulder, and sighed.

"I'm sorry." Barry tensed again. "I didn't mean—"

"It's okay, Bar. I became…I became a cop so heroes wouldn't be needed anymore."

Barry chuckled without humor. "And now?"

Joe felt Barry's surprise when he wrapped his other hand around the boy's back. He pulled Barry flush to his chest. "They still aren't. It continues to be the reason I get up every day. For the non-heroes I love."

Barry clutched Joe's sleeve. A violent shake ran through him. Joe curled over the trembling youth. After a moment, he helped Barry to his feet.

He murmured something into Joe's shirt.

"What was that?"

"I always thought of you as a superhero growing up," said Barry.

Joe stood back to marvel at the pallor that disappeared under a tight flush. "I'll always be here for you, Bar. You know that?"

Barry tilted his head in that eternal way of his, the way he'd done before he could even speak. "What are heroes for?"

"Not for making bread, apparently."

Barry patted Joe on the shoulder. "Thanks for teaching me…everything. For how to live."

"I'm just glad you've finally started to."

Something in Barry's expression almost crumpled then. Raw and strong. He mastered his lips into a grin.

"Scram," said Joe, heading for the stove. "Go find us something to watch."

Joe cracked a few eggs. His ears remained tuned to Barry's stumbling steps and he made a mental note to bandage the hands. Caitlin had thought them knife wounds, had panicked when Barry ran, but Joe knew better. He knew nail scratches when he saw them. Self-inflicted.

As the _Star Trek_ theme bubbled to life, Joe's mouth lifted in a smile, teeth and all.

Joe scoffed and shouted back—"And you call _me _outdated?"

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Written in 2015. Thanks for reading!


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